


Marian the Vampire Slayer

by MrProphet



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	1. Out of the Woods

The two men ran through the wood. They moved well, but they ran headlong in a panic. At last they stopped and pressed their backs against a big, old tree for protection.

“Are they still coming, Will?” the taller man asked.

“I have  _no_  idea, Robin,” Will replied. “I wasn’t looking back. I think I heard a couple of them fall into one of the pits, but that probably wouldn’t slow them down much.”

“Surely, even in armour…”

“Armour?” Will demanded. “Robin, I stabbed that guy. I felt the sword go right in and he laughed in my face. And speaking of faces, was it my imagination, or were they  _very_  ugly, even for guards.”

“They were,” Robin agreed. “And the lady in the coach wasn’t much to look at, either.”

“Really?”

“Well, she looked alright from a distance, but up close… Gyaaagh,”

“At least I am not a stinking meatsack like you.” Like a phantom, the lady appeared from the shadows of the forest. Her dress was torn and she seemed to have discarded half of her skirts along with her wimple and veil. Her brow was heavy, her eyes burned with an evil light and her teeth were jagged.

As she advanced, two of her guards appeared beside her, and two more came around the tree.

“Oh, hell,” Robin muttered.

The lady gave a cruel smile. “Soon enough,” she promised. “Take the soldier,” she told her guards. “The tall one is mine. His blood smells of quality.”

The guards on either side moved to seize Robin and Will. With practiced skill the outlaws caught the outstretched arms and swung their foes against one another. It was a move which should have left both guards unconscious, but these two merely fell to the ground, slightly stunned. Still, it was enough to allow Robin and Will to grab their sword and engage the other guards.

The lady’s guards were strong, but not very skilled, slashing wildly at their opponents instead of engaging them effectively. It was just as well; one savage swipe by Robin’s opponent cut halfway through a sturdy old oak and lodged it there.

As the guard struggled to free the trapped blade, Robin brought his sword down hard. He felt the man’s arm break and saw the flesh tear, but instead of collapsing in a screaming heap while his blood gushed out, he merely grabbed for the sword with his other hand and leaked a little.

Will, the better swordsman, was able to land blow after blow on his clumsy opponent, but with a similarly limited effect. Soon, the other two were on their feet, and even armed only with knives their willingness to suffer a few cuts and bruises made it almost impossible to fight three at once.

“Enough of this idiocy!” the lady snarled. She grabbed Robin’s opponent by the collar and dragged him out of the way. Seizing the hilt of his sword, she ripped if from the tree and flourished it at Robin.

“What do you say, sir?” she laughed. “Shall we dance.”

Robin was shocked. “I can’t fight you,” he insisted.

“No. But it’s more fun if you try.” She attacked with savage speed and grace, far beyond that of her cohorts. Even had he the will to strike a lady, Robin doubted whether he would have been able to do more than defend himself.

Will drove his sword deep into the flank of one of his attackers. The man twisted aside, pulling the hilt from Will’s grasp. The other guards closed in and seized Will by the arms.

Robin heard Will’s cry of alarm and turned his head. In the moment of distraction, the lady’s blade sliced along his arm, forcing him to drop his stolen sword. With a hiss of triumph, the lady seized his jerkin and spun him around. The last guard caught Robin’s arms and pinned him.

“Excellent!” the lady exclaimed. “So good to work up an appetite before a meal.” 

The stabbed guard pulled the sword from his side and stalked towards Will. He grabbed the man by the hair and opened his mouth wide, exposing rows of jagged teeth.

The lady swayed forward and pressed herself against Robin. “And this is just what every lady dreams of,” she went on, pressing her face to Robin’s neck and inhaling deeply. “A bold warrior, willing to give his life for her.”

Robin gasped as he felt her teeth pressing into his skin. Pain, sharp and hard, lanced through his body and he tried desperately to pull away. For a moment the guard held him fast, but then there was a sharp smack, as of an arrow piercing flesh, and the grip was gone. He wrenched himself away from the Lady.

A bestial howl of rage tore loose from the Lady’s blood-stained lips.

A second arrow arced out of the night and transfixed the heart of the snarling guard. He half-turned and then exploded into a cloud of dust. A moment later, the man holding Will’s right arm followed suit, his heart pierced by a long, wooden spear. As the dust settled, Will saw that his rescuer was a tall, very fat man in the habit and tonsure of a monk.

The lady lifted her sword and stared past Robin, into the shadows. “Better and better,” she snarled. She rushed forward and was met mid-charge by a hooded warrior. Sword rang against sword, the blades flashing in and out with a speed and skill that was like nothing Robin had ever seen.

Will drove his right fist into the last guard’s face and wrenched himself free. The monk moved past him, swinging his weapon – a quarterstaff, sharpened at both ends – with unexpected grace and power. Two crippling blows to knee and elbow and the guard could offer no defence against a killing thrust to the heart.

The lady locked swords with her opponent. She lunged forward, snapping her teeth, forcing her enemy back. She pushed and the warrior fell, the hood falling away from a head of long, thick, auburn curls. The Lady lunged.

“No!” Robin snatched the knife from his belt and threw it, striking the lady between the shoulder blades.

The lady turned and her lips parted to issue another taunt, but the warrior-woman flipped to her feet, drew a slim, wooden dagger from beneath her cloak and thrust it straight into the lady’s heart.

For a moment, the lady looked shocked, and then she exploded.

Robin stared in stunned amazement as his rescuer patted dust from her jerkin.

Will shook his head in despair and turned to the monk. “As my friend seems to be lost for words – for once – I’d better make the introductions. I’m Will Scathlock; this is Robin of Locksley.”

The monk nodded his tonsured head. “I’ve heard of you," he said. "I’m Brother Tuck.” He held out his hand and clasped Will’s arm in what was unmistakably a soldier’s grip.

“You weren’t always a monk,” Will guessed.

“And you, my lady?” Robin asked.

The woman laughed brightly. “Hark at him with his lady,” she said. “I’m no lady. I’m Marian; the Vampire Slayer.”


	2. The Major Oak

“That is a big tree,” Marian admitted. “I mean, I have travelled far and wide, but that is one of the biggest trees I have ever seen.”

“The Major Oak is the largest, oldest tree in the forest,” Robin explained. “Legend has it that it grew here before the people, before the forest; that every oak in every forest in England is descended from this tree.”

“There's something here,” Marian declared. “Something watching us.”

“It's said that there's a demon who dwells in the tree,” Robin went on. “Eats hearts. I'd try and spook you into cuddling up next to me, but that's probably a lost cause, right?”

She turned to face him with a roguish grin. “Well, the spooking definitely.” She took a step towards him, but he stepped back and drew his sword.

“Robin...”

“Demon!”

“You said, yes...”

“Behind you!”

Marian turned with blinding speed, stringing and loosing an arrow in a heartbeat and transfixing the approaching figure through the right shoulder. It fell hard, its mighty, antlered head lolling to the grass.

Marian sprang, straddling the creature and drawing her own sword.

_Stay your hand, Slayer; I beg of you._

Marian recoiled. “Can you hear that?” she asked Robin.

“What, the booming, stentorian voice in my head?”

“Yes.”

“Not a whisper.”

“I hate you, Locksley. Who are you?” she demanded of the voice.

_I am Herne; spirit of the forest and captain of the Wild Hunt. Long have I protected this land from demons, watched over and nurtured the forest. Each year on All Hallows Eve have I led the Hunt and kept the forces of darkness at bay._

“Only that's tonight and now I have a bloody arrow in my shoulder!” With an effort the antlered figure rose from the ground, his voice now coming from his throat.

“He said you were a demon!” Marian argued.

“Oh, and he's the expert, I suppose?” Herne grumbled. “Help me back into my tree, Slayer, and we'll see how bad the damage is.”

*

The inside of the Major Oak was even larger than the outside. A dark opening in the trunk led to a stairway that appeared almost impossible, too wide and too long to be contained within the trunk. After almost thirty yards of stairs, they entered a vast cave, almost filled with clutter and the smell of herbs. Heavy, animal noises emanated from the shadows on the far side of the cave.

Marian laid Herne on a table. The cave was dimly lit by rush lights and they could see that the man under the mantle was old, although he was still strong. The arrow had penetrated clean through his shoulder, but cut mostly through muscle. It had missed most of the blood vessels and not splintered the bone, but the damage was considerable.

“Well, you're not riding a horse any time soon,” Robin assured him.

“I have to.”

“Not happening.”

“What is this place?” Marian asked, moving away from the table.

“The Hall of the Hunter,” Herne replied. “A gateway to another world; a place of ancient power. This is where the Wild Hunt rests from All Hallow's Eve to All Hallow's Eve, building their strength for the ride; for the hunt of demons.”

“So you miss one,” Marian said. She rifled through a stack of herbs and then lifted a wickedly sharp sickle from among them. “What's the harm?”

“There is a second cave in the forest; the Cave of Demons. Come midnight it opens a gulf into Hell and vomits forth a plague of demons. If the Hunt does not ride, the demons run riot, slaughtering and burning and...”

“Alright! That's the harm then. Get the man on his horse, Robin.”

“He's not up to it, Marian. He gets on a horse, he dies!”

Marian came over to the table. “Does it have to be you?”

“It has to be Herne,” he insisted. “The Wild Huntsman!”

“Hunts _man_?” she asked, and the wounded old man nodded. “Great. Robin; get the hat on.”


	3. The Demon

“Remind me, Sir Guy,” the Sheriff of Nottingham mused. “What is it that our lord and master, Prince John demands of us?”

“Tribute,” Sir Guy of Gisbourne replied.

“Ah, yes; tribute!” the Sheriff snapped his fingers. “I forgot, you see, because – and don’t think I’m pointing fingers or anything – that our tribute cages are a trifle… empty. Come to think of it, so are the barracks and the good rooms where our tribute collectors usually sleep. Where, I wonder, are my tribute collectors? Where is the wailing and gnashing of teeth that usually fills the courtyard at tribute time? Where, in a word” – at last his voice rose in anger – “are my  _sacrifices_? Prince John wants his blood, and he will not be happy if he has to  _wait_!”

“I know,” Gisbourne agreed. He turned and threw his goblet at the demon minstrel who sat in the corner, strumming his lute. “But it’s not easy to find out what’s killing all of the tribute collectors when all the tribute collectors are being killed. I may be undead, but I still can’t talk to anyone who’s gone all the way.” 

“Fortunately, I know a girl who can,” the Sheriff assured him. “Well, I say girl; more of a hag, but young at heart. That’s how I know who is causing us all this trouble.”

*

Robin and Will attacked together, swords swinging savagely. Their opponent parried both attacks, one with a sword and the other with a knife. She spun, knocking both of their blades aside with incredible strength and struck Robin hard in the arm. Will, the more accomplished swordsman, lasted a little longer, but soon felt his enemy’s blade against his ribs.

“Ow,” Robin complained. “That really hurt.”

Will shook his head. “Noblemen,” he tutted. “No stamina. It’s just the flat of the blade.”

“But she’s really strong,” Robin complained.

“I am the Slayer,” Marian reminded him. She used the tip of her sword to flick Robin’s fallen blade back to him, before sheathing it at her side. “That was better, but most vampires are almost as strong as me.”

“I’m better with a bow,” Robin replied defensively.

“Than anyone I know,” Marian agreed, “but vampires are also fast; they will get past your bow sometimes and you will have to face them hand-to-hand. Of course,” she added, “it will help if I can learn to shoot more accurately.”

“You’re not a bad shot, Marian,” Robin assured her.

“But… I could be better.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep an eye out for Tuck,” he sighed.

“Does Tuck want to learn how to shoot?” Robin asked.

*

In the Green Man tavern in Nottingham, Much was warily nursing a pint. He was hardly the highest profile outlaw in the county, but some of the Sheriff’s guards might remember the former steward of Locksley. When a hooded figure slid into the seat opposite him he scowled. “You’re late,” he accused. “And could you be any more conspicuous?”

Red eyes gleamed under the hood. “Well, now that you mention it.”

Much signalled for wine; the landlord brought it and left. The hand which snaked from under the heavy cloak had red skin and six fingers.

“And I’m late because it would be suspicious if I went out any earlier. I’m an A’dela demon; very sensitive to heat.”

“I can’t believe this can be hot after the fires of Hell.”

“How many times, Much; I’m not from Hell. I’m not from any of the major demon dimensions. My home is a lot like his one, just with more caves.” The demon sipped his wine. “But I digress. The Sheriff knows about you. He hired a hag to speak to some of the tribute-takers you dusted and they got the Slayer and your lord and master down to a tee.”

“And the rest of us?” Much asked nervously.

“A blur, it seems; I think I know who’ll get the starring role when I write the ballads. Still, the Sheriff is determined to sweep the forest for you.”

“For us?” Much chuckled. “He doesn’t have the men to sweep the whole forest for a handful of outlaws.”

The demon shook his head. His left hand reached out, proffering a tightly-rolled parchment. “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you Much? He doesn’t need  _men_.” 

Much pondered that in nervous silence for a moment and then drained his pint. He took the scroll and tucked it into his doublet, then stood and clapped a hand on the demon’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Al’yn,” he said and hurried from the tavern.

Al’yn sighed. “Wrong species, human, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

*

“An archer’s strength comes from his – or her – whole body,” Robin explained, wondering why it was so hard for Marian to grasp such a simple concept. She was clever and strong, and yet they had been over this a dozen times or more. He stood close behind the Slayer, with one hand touching her left wrist and the other pressing gently on her abdomen. He patted her stomach and she recoiled slightly, bumping against him. “Your stomach needs to be taut,” he said.

The muscles tightened under his hand, the stomach as flat and hard as a board.

“Arm straight and strong,” he went on. He ran his hand along, lifting the elbow slightly, dropping the shoulder; he marvelled at the strength in that slender limb as Marian drew back on her longbow. A woman of her build should be drawing less than fifty pounds on a much shorter bow, but her weapon at least equalled the two hundred-and-some pounds on Robin’s own. 

“Feel the bow like part of your own body.  _Know_  where the arrow will go when you let fly.”

The bow was almost black with oiling and had a cross set into the grip. It was a thing of beauty, like its owner.

Even as that thought came to him, Robin was suddenly very aware of Marian’s closeness, and of the fact that he might have been missing something earlier.

He coughed awkwardly. “Draw right back,” he said, “and breathe in. Then let your breath go with the arrow;  _breathe_  it out at your target.”

He felt her stomach tense and relax and realised that his hand was still pressing on it. She released the arrow and, as it flew, took another half-step back against him. His hand stayed on her, tightening his grip ever so slightly.

“Locksley!”

Robin leaped back; he could not have moved faster if Marian had suddenly sprouted wings. As Brother Tuck strode into the clearing, Robin was running down to check the target. “Good,” he said. “Almost dead centre. We’ll try moving targets next time; keep practicing, and, um… all that. Okay? Good, all done! Tuck; Will says you want to learn to shoot.”

“I know how to use a bow,” Tuck assured him. “Much is back, there’s something you need to see.”

*

“The Sheriff is planning to send something to flush us out,” Tuck explained.

“You mean someone,” Robin corrected.

Tuck glowered at him. “I know what I mean.” He spread the parchment on the ground. On the parchment was a diagram of interlinking circles, with weird, occult symbols drawn at each intersection. “Al’yn saw the amulet used in the summoning and made this copy of the designs.”

“Can we trust that… thing?” Will demanded.

“The A’dela Clan are quite benign as far as demons go,” Tuck allowed, “and his information has been good so far. Besides; the Sheriff’s hall is protected by mind readers. No human spy could get close to him without being discovered.”

“You mean we can’t trust him, but we can’t afford not to use him,” Robin summarised.

“You’re not as foolish as you look, Lord Locksley.”

“Thank you… Wait…”

“What is it?” Marian asked.

Tuck looked sombre. “It’s a Kandarian summoning wheel,” he explained. “These three circular sections rotate to produce different combinations and permutations of symbols. There are seven symbols on the small ring and thirteen on each of the larger, allowing for any one of more than a thousand…”

“One thousand, one hundred and eighty three,” Much noted. “I’m a steward,” he reminded them. “I’m good with numbers.”

“Do you think this picture shows the arrangement the Sheriff used?” Marian asked.

Tuck nodded. “It has to stay locked in this position, otherwise the demon will escape from his control. Unfortunately, I know what this combination is used to summon, and some of the details of the ritual. The villagers taken from Wyke… we can forget about a rescue mission.” He sighed deeply. “I should have realised.”

“Tuck, there were one hundred and sixty-nine people,” Will reminded him. “Men, women and…”

“Thirty-nine men, thirty-nine women and ninety-one children,” Tuck agreed. “I should have realised. The exact number of sacrifices needed for the rite of invocation to summon the Sheyack’nar.”

“The what?” Much asked.

“Sheyack’nar,” Marian echoed. “An elder demon of the Kandarian warrior broods.”

“Also called the Winged Torment or the Remorseless Ones,” Tuck explained. “Born from the forced breeding of the greaest of the warrior broods, each Sheyack’nar is suckled on blood and weaned on the flesh of its weaker parents. They dwell in the Kandarian shadow dimension until called upon to manifest in the blood of the sacrifices. They are among the few that exist in our dimension as pure demon, without mingling their blood with a mortal host. They are swift, powerful and deadly; hunters without peer. They can be mastered, but loosed without control they are a force of pure, unadulterated destruction, recognising neither friend nor foe. If the Sheriff has called up a Sheyak’nar to see to our destruction…”

“Then we kill it,” Marian interrupted. “The Sheyack’nar can be killed; six of the thirteen have been accounted for since they were created.”

“Yes,” Tuck agreed, “but two were killed with blades of skyborn steel, one was drowned in the deepest ocean, one was swallowed whole by a dragon and two were struck by lightning. Which were you planning on employing?”

Will grinned at Robin. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“I think I am,” Robin agreed.

“What are you thinking?” Tuck demanded.

“The Tower of Storms,” Will said, at the same time that Robin said: “Angelholt Mound.”

Marian grinned. “Tell me more,” she said.


	4. Angelholt Mound

“According to local legend, an angel fell to Earth after a titanic battle with the forces of evil. The place where he fell and found succour has ever since been called Angelholt. The Angel was found and tended by the lord of these lands, and in gratitude gave to him a blade of celestial iron.”

“A sword of skyborn steel?” Tuck asked.

“Well, that’s your department,” Robin reminded him. “Anyway, the sword passed to his son and to his son’s nephew, but then the line died out in the Saxon invasion. The new lord tried to take the sword for himself, but he was a tyrant, unworthy of the blade, and it brought him only misfortune. Finding that he could not destroy it, he opened the barrow of the last rightful owner of the sword and placed it upon the body. Apparently, this was too little and too late, however. The barrow closed upon him and the chamber where the two men lay was never found again.”

“But you believe that we shall find it?”

“The legend says that the barrow will yield up its treasure to a warrior of true and valorous heart, with the strength to stand against the forces of darkness. That was why I wanted to bring Marian,” he added. “I’m not sure a jaded crusader and a fat scholar really come up to snuff.”

“Be that as it may,” Tuck growled, self-consciously sucking in his gut, “I was not about to allow you to take Marian off on her own. She is the Slayer; her life has been dedicated to training and study. She does not need some outlaw rogue turning her head just when she most needs focus.”

“You think I’m a bad influence on her,” Robin realised.

“No, Robin. I  _know_  you are a bad influence on her. She questions my orders, neglects her practice routines.”

Robin frowned. “You think she’s letting herself go? She’s a better archer than she was two months ago, and I haven’t seen her getting careless anywhere else.”

“It… will come,” Tuck insisted. “Just keep away from her.”

“I’ll try not to corrupt her,” Robin agreed, “but if I’ve learned one thing about her, it’s that I’d be a fool to try and make her decisions for her.”

*

Off to the west, Marian followed Will and Much through the forest towards the fabled Tower of Storms.

“Any storm over Sherwood, the centre is there,” Much explained. “They say the tower has been struck by lightning more than a hundred times…”

“I still wonder if we can be sure of a strike just when we need it,” Marian mused.

“This year,” Much finished. “And it’s not even May Day.”

“I understand that part of the plan,” Will allowed, “but what about all this chain?”

“Lightning loves metal,” Much insisted. “Absolutely loves it. I once saw Jeb Smith struck by lightning  _indoors_.”

Will sighed. “Just because Jeb Smith is a blacksmith, he isn’t  _made_  of metal.”

“I know that,” Much huffed. “But he set up a hoist, didn’t he; for lifting heavy things on and off the anvil; a length of chain over a pulley which he fixed to the base pin of the weather cock. That’s what the lightning hit, but he was holding the chain and I saw the lightning dancing down it into Jeb’s arm.”

“And it killed him?” Marian asked.

“What? Jeb Smith? Take more’n that to finish him off.”

Will frowned. “And what were you doing in the forge in the middle of a thunderstorm anyway?”

“We were… talking,” Much replied with a blush. “About… Alice Smith, if you must know.” Resentment quickly replaced embarrassment. “The lightning interrupted rather, and as this was about a month before my Lord of Locksley came home and I became an outlaw, I haven’t had a chance to renew the conversation. No doubt there are others willing to talk on the subject, however.”

“Alice Smith?” Will asked, incredulously.

“Yes.”

“ _Big_  Alice Smith?”

“She helps her father in the forge!” Much snapped. “Naturally she’s developed a certain amount of muscle.”

Will laughed out loud. “She’d chew you up and spit you out!” he scoffed.

“ _She_  was in favour of the match. All I had left to do was speak to her father. Then a certain man-at-arms accompanied my Lord back from the crusades and  _stabbed a Sheriff’s man_.”

Marian coughed softly. “Can we keep our minds on the matter in hand?” she suggested. “Lightning?”

“Right,” Much agreed. “Well, the other thing that may have saved Jeb’s life is that most of the lightning stayed with the metal.”

Marian nodded at Much’s pack mule and her heavy burden. “Hence all that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a clever man, Much.”

“So Alice always said.”

*

Angelholt was a tiny village, but the oversized church and the faded remnants of a great longhouse showed that it had once been much more. The villagers looked at them suspiciously, but the old priest greeted Robin warmly and showed the visitors up to the Mound without an argument.

“Young Robin of Locksley, as I live and breathe. The word is that you are an outlaw; an enemy of the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“The word is true, Father Mathew.”

The priest nodded his grey head. “Good for you,” he said.

“What can you tell us about the Mound, Father?” Tuck asked.

“Only that it is very ancient, and that those who delve into its many potholes and voids seldom return to tell the tale. The rest is folklore and superstition mostly, but enough to draw a steady stream of treasure hunting fools to their doom. There is nothing in that Mound to benefit any man or woman.”

Robin shook his head sadly. “If there is even a chance that the Celestial Sword lies beneath the Mound, we have to try to find it,” he said. “Our lives and many more may depend upon it.”

Father Mathew pulled aside a mass of greenery. “Then I shall pray for you,” he said, ushering them in.

The Mound was a low, long pile of earth, worn away in places to reveal the massive, supporting stones which had long been buried. It looked, Robin thought suddenly, like the carcass of some colossal beast, its bones exposed by long months of decay. At the edges of the stones, voids yawned; deep, black holes leading down into… who knew what. The clearing in which the Mound lay was all-but silent; no birds sang, no beasts scampered; no breath of wind disturbed the stillness.

“Alright then,” Robin whispered.

*

The name ‘Tower of Storms’ conjured up a vast, blasted pinnacle of masonry. The reality was a little more prosaic: Three storeys of stone, once cleaned and dressed but now weathered and mossy, scarred by the fall of masonry from above. That fall was attested to, not only by the shattered silhouette of the battlements, but by the split stone blocks which lay strewn among the long grass. The tower stood on a high stack of rock, adding perhaps another storey to its height, at the centre of a small island, embraced by two swift-flowing arms of the river. There was but one bridge and no ford, and it took all of Much’s skill to coax his mule across the racing channel.

“Cheerful place,” Will noted, while Marian strode to the door and knocked four times.

“Is there anybody there?” the Slayer demanded.

“It’s been abandoned for years,” Much assured her. “Ever since the witch died.”

Will turned to stare at the steward. “Witch?” he asked. “There’s a witch?”

“Was a witch,” Much corrected. “Years ago now; died when I was a little boy. I remember the fuss when the priest said someone had to go in and fetch her body out for burial in the potter’s field.”

“And did they?” Will demanded. “Or is she still here?”

“No,” Much assured him. “Four men went in to get her. Old Samson and his son, Young Samson; Jack Smith; and Dan the Collier. Funny thing though; they all died within a few months of each other.”

Will fumed. “There’s a curse?”

“How long after they went in did they die?” Marian asked.

“Twenty year, near enough,” Much replied. “Not six months back. Well, they were all old men, so it was expected. Except Young Samson, of course.”

“And what happened to him?”

“Nothing mysterious,” Much sighed. “Him and his father tried to stand up to the Sheriff’s men. They were… made an example of. Pour encourage eh les otters. Norman bastards.”

“Come on,” Marian said sharply. She looked up and saw grey clouds gathering beyond the canopy. She drove her foot hard against the rotten wood of the door, smashing it in. “Let’s see if there’s anywhere not-too blasted or accursed to take shelter.”

*

“Storm’s coming,” Tuck noted.

“Is that a weather report or a philosophical statement?” Robin asked.

“Just an observation. Tell me, Robin of Locksley; do you believe that the sword buried in this mound was forged from a star by a fallen angel?”

Robin turned from his digging and grinned. “With all I’ve seen of late, I’d be wary of any gift from a fallen angel,” he assured the monk, “but while I was in the Holy Land I met a man who showed me a knife that was said to hold the power to slay a demon with but a single touch. The knife was displayed in a little building – a shrine or chapel, I suppose – beside a mosque. It was a curved blade, twelve inches long, with a handle of gold, studded with jewels. I told the man I didn’t think it looked well-balanced, nor particularly sharp. That was when he showed me the  _real_  knife. Six inches, plain black iron, with a wood-and-leather hilt. He explained that this knife had no power; no magic in it at all. It had fallen from the sky like a shooting star; nothing more than a lump of metal, but fallen from a realm without magic. Shaped with a simple hammer into this rough blade, it proved anathema to anything magical because it denied their existence. Myself, I’m hoping that this Celestial ‘Sword’ is the same sort of thing.”

“You’re digging through ten yards of soil for a knife?”

Robin laughed. “I’m doing this for the same reason you are,” he assured Tuck.

“Why is that?”

“For her.” Robin turned and drove his pick into the earth. At that blow, the earth beneath his feet opened up and he disappeared into a vast crevasse.

“Robin!” Tuck called, moving cautiously to the edge of the pit. “Are you there, Robin?”

And from the shadows a tiny voice echoed: “Ow.”

Tuck sighed in relief. “I’ll get the rope!”

“No, wait!” Robin called. “Lower me some candles. And a tinderbox!”

*

The storm raged overhead, thunder crashing around the tower as fork after fork of lightning hurled itself against the shattered stone of the battlements. In the lowest kitchen of the tower, however, the noise was muffled and a roaring fire soon banished the gloom and chill.

After a few hours the storm had passed and the three outlaws began to explore the tower. 

“Careful,” Much warned as they climbed the stairs.

“I know,” Will replied. “This wet stone is like ice.”

“I mean the rail,” Much explained. “It’s metal.”

“Oh, you and your metal.”

Much fumed. “You’ll see,” he assured the soldier.

“Oh, stop fussing,” Marian chuckled. “Let’s see what’s up there before we worry too much about what’s down here.”

*

Robin struck a spark from the tinderbox and lit several candles. He arranged them around the chamber into which he had fallen. He could smell the age on the air, but the vaulted stone ceiling was as impressive as any product of Norman architecture. There was a stone casket in the centre of the chamber, with the figure of a warrior carved upon the lid. The warrior was clearly no knight, neither Norman nor Saxon, but something older; wild-haired and half-naked.

There was a sound of slithering, as Tuck swung down the rope to join him.

“You’re a man of many surprises, Brother Tuck,” Robin noted.

“As are you, Lord Locksley.”

“Would you mind?” Robin gestured at the sarcophagus.

Tuck said a short prayer, after which they pushed the lid aside. It was heavy, but swung easily, almost as though it had been waiting to be opened. The two men leaned over and saw…

“Nothing!” Tuck gasped.

“I thought as much,” Robin said.

Tuck brushed mud from his habit. “You couldn’t have said something earlier?”

*

“Look at this!” Marian gasped.

“Yes!” Much laughed. “You see; that’s why the lightning strikes here. Metal rods, reaching into the sky, drawing it down.  _Lightning loves metal_ ,” he added.

“Alright, alright,” Will grunted. “Are you going to be insufferable now?”

“Maybe.”

“Well don’t,” Marian told him. “Get the chains; we need to be ready.”

*

Father Mathew was in the old crypt, waiting for them. He stood before an opening in the wall; a low receptacle which housed a large reliquary casket.

“You said there was nothing in the Mound,” Robin reminded him. “You knew that because everything in there was removed, years ago, and brought  _here_.”

"You are quite correct, of course,” Father Mathew agreed. “But a charge was laid upon the priests of this church, never to give up what is in this casket unless the one who came to claim it had first been to the Mound, entered… and returned.”

“Well,” Robin said. “Here we are.”

Father Mathew nodded. He placed a key in the lock of the reliquary and turned it. “Take what you need,” he told them. “I shall be upstairs.”

With tentative hands, Robin lifted the lid of the reliquary. All at once, the crypt was filed with light as the candle flame was reflected from the multitude of jewels and gems within.

“Take only what you need,” Tuck reminded Robin.

“I heard him,” Robin sighed. “I am actually quite rich; it does wonders for one’s attitude to money.” So saying, he plunged his hand wrist deep into the treasure.

“So I see.”

Robin gave Tuck a disparaging look and withdrew his hand, grasping the hilt of a long sword. The hilt was bound in dark wood, leather and wire, with only a very small crossguard. A deep curve ran through the single-edged blade into the shape of the grip. The blade was dark, blue-grey; heavy, but perfectly balanced. “This is better than I was hoping for,” Robin admitted. He rummaged around in the chest, but brought out nothing else. “I almost expected there to be something else in there.”

Tuck shook his head. “This  _is_  skyborn steel,” he confirmed. “About a dozen falling stars worth. We have our weapon, Robin of Locksley. We’d better get it back to the Slayer.”

*

At the tower, Much had almost finished his preparations. Marian, however, was staring into the darkening sky.

“What is it?” Will asked.

“Look there,” she replied. He followed her finger to a dot in the sky; something vast and winged that loomed black against the red-gold glow of the sunset.

Much walked up beside them. “And who’s that?” he asked.

They looked down and saw a stranger, standing on the bridge with a long staff in his hand.

“I don’t know,” Marian replied. She loosened her sword in its scabbard and made for the stairs. “By I aim to find out.”


	5. Little John

Marian came out of the Tower of Storms and walked down to the bridge. The stranger stood with his back to her, but turned at the sound of her approach and set his staff on the planks at his feet. Above them the storm clouds were gathering again.  
“Good evening, sir,” she called. “Were you planning to stand there all night?”

“If necessary.” The man was tall – taller than just about anyone Marian had ever seen – with dark skin and a wild, black beard. He wore a turban around his head and a long silk coat beneath his cloak.

“You’re a Saracen,” Marian realised.

The man chuckled. “And I was told that Christians lack an education.”

Marian narrowed her eyes. Some friends of mine are coming to join me here,” she said. “They’ll need to cross the bridge.”

“They shall not pass.”

Marian sighed. “I thought you might say that.” She drew her sword and took a step forward.

“No,” he said. His hands came out from beneath his cloak and he held a knife to the ropes of the bridge. “Come closer and I cut the bridge.”

“You’re insane!” Marian accused.

“I am bound,” he replied. “I will not fight you with a sword.”

“What.” She took a step back from the bridge, trying to work out how long it would take her to reach him at a run.

The man stooped and picked up his staff in his right hand, and another in his left. He threw the left-handed staff to Marian, who caught it easily.

“You’ll fight with a staff?” Marian asked, taking a quarter grip on the weapon.

The Saracen faced her with a more cautious, half grip. He could afford to give away the reach, given that he topped her by at least a foot, even without the turban.

“I shall take that as a yes,” she decided. She stepped onto the bridge and this time he let her approach, waiting until she was in reach and then lashing out at her with swift strokes of his staff.

Marian let the Saracen carry the attack at first, only defending herself. “You’re very good,” she commended.

“I have studied long,” he replied.

“Am I permitted to know your name before I thrash you?”

He laughed at that. “My name is Nahir ibn Lut al-Jehan,” he told her, “and you are not the one destined to defeat me.”

Marian grinned at him. “We make our own destinies,” she said, and then she went on the offensive. She drove the tip of her staff forward in a blistering flurry of devastating blows which knocked al-Jehan, skilled as he was, off-balance. “Step off the bridge!” she demanded, driving him back towards the far bank. 

“Never!” he roared, and came back at her, staff whirling like a wheel. Marian met force with force, her Slayer’s frame absorbing the giant Saracen’s might, if not with ease then without serious harm, until at last she saw the chance to strike. She knocked her enemy’s staff aside, dropped low and swept the legs from under al-Jehan. He fell hard against the ropes of the bridge and, being so much taller and more top-heavy than anyone for whom the bridge had been designed, toppled over and fell down the steep gully into the rushing stream. In mere moments he had been swept away and out of sight.

Marian went back with a weary step.

“What’s the matter?” Much asked. “Are you hurt?”

Marian shook her head. “I just… he didn’t need to die.”

*

Robin hurried through the woods, pausing from time to time to allow Tuck to catch up.

“Come on!” he called.

“I am going as fast as I can,” Tuck replied. “I’m a scholar, not an adventurer. The Watcher’s role is not to run through forests!”

“Evidently. Why don’t you let me carry the sword?” Robin suggested.

“The sword is for the Slayer.”

“I’m not going to run off with it!” Robin exclaimed. “I just thought you could use a rest.”

Tuck shook his head, gasping, but at length he presented the Celestial Sword to Robin.

“Are you ready to go again?” Robin asked.

Tuck nodded. “Just… not so fast.”

*

At the Tower, Will and Much were helping Marian into her armour. “Now, just make sure you don’t get tangled,” Much cautioned.

“I’ll try to keep my feet pointing downwards as well,” Marian assured him.

“You’re not used to this,” Will warned her as he settled the helmet on her head. “You’re used to being able to see much more than this.”

“Now you really are just stating the obvious.”

“I just want you to remember,” Will explained. “Don’t try to look around too much; we’ll tell you if it’s coming. And remember, we need to get it on the ground. Much may be the expert on the love life of lightning, but even I know that God always throws it at the  _ground_.”

Much picked up Marian’s staff and passed it to her. “Let’s get a bit of practice in,” he suggested. “You two can spar and I’ll call out directions.”

Will shook his head angrily. “I will get you for this,” he told Much.

“Whatever you say, Scathlock. Now, let’s go.”

*

About a mile away downstream, a huge form caught in the branches of a fallen tree. In the strong current it held only briefly, but it was long enough for the big man to regain his senses and clutch at the tree.  
With slow, powerful movements, Nahir ibn Lut al-Jahan dragged himself out of the water.

*

They sparred briefly, Marian finding the armour and its attachment a terrible hindrance, so that Will actually managed to score a number of hits against the steel coat.

“We are going to die,” Marian told them.

Much shook his head. “You don’t need to kill him like you normally do. Just…”

“It’s coming,” Marian said.

“Well, I hope so. All a bit of a waste of time otherwise.”

“No!” Marian snapped, drawing her sword. “It’s coming  _now_!”

With a shriek, the demon descended, its claws outstretched. Much and Will leaped aside and Marian stepped forward, slashing at the grasping talons of the Sheyack’nar. The blade hit hard and the beast recoiled, but its flesh was unbroken, despite the Slayer’s strength.

The Sheyack’nar drew back, giving the outlaws their first clear view of the elder demon. It was huge; its roughly-human body was at least twice the size of a man, with vast wings stretching out fifteen or twenty feet on either side. The wings were fixed at the shoulders, in place of arms, and it was the huge, taloned feet that reached for them.

“Get back inside!” Marian cautioned the others.

Above them, thunder rumbled ominously, or it might just have been the slow beat of the Sheyack’nar’s wings.

“Come to me, fiend,” Marian muttered. “You know I can’t hurt you.”

The Sheyack’nar swooped down again. It beat past Marian’s sword and clamped its talons around her shoulders.

“Well, this isn’t good,” Marian noted and then the demon hauled her into the air.

*

Robin heard the demon’s raucous cries and left Tuck to follow as best he could. He emerged from the trees in time to see the demon lift Marian – he had no doubt who it was in the armour – into the air.

“No!” He sprinted across the bridge, knowing he would be too late, but before the demon could rise more than a few yards it was pulled up short. Lightning flashed above them, and in its glare Robin could see that Marian was tethered by a stout chain about her waist.

Marian flailed uselessly, her armour’s joints too inflexible for her to reach the demon. Arrows whistled past her, stinging the demon like gnats, and it let her fall. She struck the ground with a fearful clatter and struggled to rise.

The Sheyack’nar stooped down and pinned her to the ground. If it had hands she would have been in trouble, but although the armoured plates bent and buckled, the taloned feet lacked the dexterity to remove them.

At that moment, the clouds split and a brilliant bolt of lightning stabbed down at the Tower. Marian’s skin fizzed and tingled and the demon sprang away; lightning danced around Marian’s armour. 

The Sheyack’nar hovered warily, sensing the danger to itself.

Robin ran at the demon. He leaped up and slashed at the demon with the sword, cutting deep into its left wing. The demon faltered in the air, its strength flagging.

Marian struggled up, waving Robin back. “Don’t touch me,” she warned. “Is that the sword?” Robin nodded and held out the blade, but Marian shook her head. “I can barely bend; you need to force that thing down.”

“Okay,” Robin agreed. He moved forward, trying to reach the demon. It moved away, backing air while it looked for an opportunity to attack. It was unable to climb with one wing injured, but neither was it low enough or close enough for Robin to get at it without opening himself up for those claws to, well, open him up.

With a mighty warcry, a huge Saracen sprang up from the end of the bridge and delivered a mighty, overhead blow with a long, curved sword, ripping open the right wing.

With a scream, the Sheyack’nar dropped to the ground. Marian charged and flung herself against the beast, driving it to the ground. She turned her head towards the sky and cried out in rage and frustration.

Again, lightning struck the tower top, danced along the chain and flashed around Marian’s armour. This time, however, it found another path to the ground, tearing through the already injured demon.

The Sheyack’nar screamed once more and perished in a flash of flame. Robin hurried to drag Marian up and release the chain from her waist.

“Thank you,” she sighed, pulling off the helmet. “Oh, God’s name that stinks! Can you help me with the rest of this metal?”

“Of course.”

Robin ducked to work on the straps of the armour and Marian grinned over his back at their giant rescuer. As well as the sword, he had since their duel found a shirt of scales and a conical helm and now looked every inch the warrior. “You came back then?”

“Of course. It is my destiny. I transgressed against my Order in Baghdad and was exiled for my crimes.”

“What crimes?” Robin asked. “Not that we’re judging, you understand, but we like to make sure.”

“I would not wish to be specific.”

“Well, about then,” Marian suggested.

“About five-foot-seven.”

“Fair play,” Robin agreed. “Ow!” he protested as Marian slapped him with an armoured hand.

“For my sins I was cast out and doomed to wander until I was defeated, and then sworn to serve my conqueror,” the Saracen explained. “I never expected to end up in such a… godforsaken country.”

Much and Will approached from the Tower and, at the same moment, Tuck huffed and puffed his way over the bridge. “Who is this?” the Watcher demanded.

“Oh, it’s whatsis name,” Much said. “Bloke Marian killed. He looks good for it.”

“Little John,” Will supplied.

“Right.”

“My name is Nahir ibn Lut al-Jehan of the Order of Twilight Sentinels,” al-Jehan insisted.

“Right,” Much repeated. “Little John.”

"Lut al-Jehan!"

“An Eastern Watcher,” Tuck realised. “I heard that your part of the Order was more direct, but…”

Marian shrugged out of the last piece of armour. “Can we have this conversation somewhere drier?” she begged.

“Of course,” Tuck agreed. “And then we can plan how to find and destroy the Sheriff’s summoning wheel, before he unleashes another monstrosity upon us.”

Robin sighed. “It never ends, does it.”

Marian grinned. “Rarely.”


	6. Pilgrim

Much was enjoying the argument far more than Tuck was, but then he was taking it less seriously.

“What did people do before the Crucifixion?” he asked.

“They used crosses,” Tuck growled. “They’re symbols of protection. Crosses always worked; that’s why the Romans used them for executing threats to their society; it’s why Christ chose to be executed in that way, according to some, but that’s supposition.”

“So it isn’t Christ’s power that repel’s vampires?”

“Isn’t it? Did the crosses always burn? What else gives holy water its power? Just because the cross is an ancient sign of warding, it doesn’t follow that our Saviour had no power. His power is absolute.”

Much shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see proof.”

“You have no idea about  _faith_ ,” Tuck accused.

“Perhaps not,” Much sighed. “But I’ve seen… too much hurt.”

Tuck fixed him with a dark glower. “Boy, you have no idea what hurt is.”

As they argued, the two men were making their way along the forest road between Nottingham and Lincoln. They had been to speak to their informant at court, Master Al’yn of the A’dela Clan and, what with one thing and another, had spent quite a while longer than they had intended in the Green Man tavern. The sun had set almost an hour ago, and so when they saw a figure approaching – pale and indistinct in the fading twilight – they were at once wary.

“Night traveller,” Much muttered, laying a hand on the haft of his axe.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Tuck warned, but he shifted his grip on his staff.

The pale figure approached as Much and Tuck waited. Close to, they saw that the traveller was slim and straight-backed, with a cloud of fine, pale blonde hair and oddly dark eyes. She was dressed in a bulky, white robe like a Carmelite habit. Her feet were shoeless beneath the hem of the robe, but bound in strips of cloth.

“Trouble,” Tuck noted.

“She’s… beautiful,” Much whispered.

“That’s what I mean.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the young woman said. “God be with you.”

“And also with you,” Tuck replied. “What brings you out on a night like this?”

“I have travelled far and long,” she replied. “My name is Angela of Nottingham and I have been on a pilgrimage. I have not seen my home in many years and the ways have become unfamiliar. Is it far to the great church?”

“About an hour back the way we’ve come,” Much replied. “It will be full-dark before you reach it and the gates will be closed.”

“You should come with us and wait in our camp for the dawn,” Tuck suggested. “We can escort you to the city in the morning.”

“No!” Angela replied. “I mean… I have come so far; I can hardly wait.”

“Then at least take something for your protection,” Tuck suggested. He took a large cross from his rope belt an offered it too her.

“I would not take from a friar,” she insisted. “You who have so little…”

“Yet you have no cross of your own. Odd, for a pilgrim.”

“Don’t be so rough on her, Tuck,” Much insisted. “You can see she’s tired.”

“I don’t see tiredness,” Tuck insisted, “And I don’t see a cross.”

“I have crosses.”

“Then one more won’t hurt.” With a flip of his wrist, he threw the cross to Angela, who caught it without thinking.

Her hand steamed.

“Ah-ha!”

Angela moved like lightning, barging past Much and Tuck, and ran.

“After her!” Tuck commanded.

Much took off at a run; Tuck hurried after, but although wickedly swift with his quarterstaff he was slow on his feet. Much soon outpaced him, keeping the vampire in sight. She ran fast, but she was not as swift as most of her kind; she ran with a strange, limping gait and Much was almost upon her before he had time to think about what he would do when he caught her.

Angela turned and Much tackled her. He wrestled her to the ground and pinned her there. It was only when he was feeling for the stake underneath his tunic that he realised she was not fighting back.

“Why aren’t you killing me?” he wondered.

"I… I will not shed blood,” Angela insisted with an effort. “I will not shed blood,” she repeated, more certainly.

“But, you’re a vampire?”

“Do you  _want_  me to attack you?” Angela asked innocently, her caramel eyes wide.

“Well, I… No I don’t,” he assured her. “But I don’t understand.”

“I spoke the truth,” she replied. “I have travelled from Nottingham to Jerusalem, seeking absolution for my monstrous state. I have walked the road of the Saviour, seeking to purge my evil through suffering and prayer.” She released Tuck’s cross; her palm was blackened and deeply etched with the shape of the holy token. “Please,” she begged. “Take me to the church. Let me complete my pilgrimage at last.”

Much looked into her eyes and felt his heart melt. He stood and held out his hand. “Alright, but we’ll have to hurry,” he added as he heard Tuck crashing through the forest after them.

*

Much led Angela over the town wall and through the dark streets to the church. The doors were locked, but Robin Hood and his band had many friends, including the priest’s young curate, Father Simon.

Father Simon looked nervous as he opened the door in response to Much’s frantic knocking, but Much put that down to Angela’s presence. Only when they stepped into the nave did he realise that there was a much more pressing cause for alarm than the mere presence of a beautiful girl with bloody feet and a horrible burn on her hand.

“Gisbourne!” Much spat angrily.

“That’s Lord Gisbourne to you, peasant,” Guy of Gisbourne replied dismissively, turning immediately to face Angela. “Angela de Bertilac; the Sheriff wants to see you.”

Two of Gisbourne’s guards stepped forward, but Much leaped in front of Angela, sword singing from his scabbard.

“No, Much!” Angela cried. “Run! Save yourself!” 

But Much had already engaged the two guards, fighting with a furious and unsustainable pace. He caught one of them a heavy blow to the head which poured blood into his eyes, but the second managed to cut Much on the leg and he stumbled. The guard lifted his sword for a killing blow.

“No!” Angela dragged Much out of the way and lashed out with her bare foot. The guard flew back and crashed against a pillar. He slumped to the ground, blood bubbling between his lips.

“No,” Angela moaned. “Oh, no no no no no!”

Gisbourne drew his own sword. “You stupid girl!” he spat, his face distorting into the demonic visage of the vampire. “You’re useless to us now!” He sprang forward, but Angela met him with a series of swift, ferocious kicks which raised steam from Gisbourne’s body with each blow.

Much drew himself to his feet. With a pounding of sandals and a wheezing, huffing of breath, Tuck laboured into the aisle behind him.

Gisbourne backed off. “You’re welcome to her,” he sneered and then turned and leaped out through the rose window of the church in a spray of shattering stained glass.

Much took a step forward. “Angela?”

Angela turned, her face a demon’s mask, ravenous and wild. Her bones jutted horribly beneath her skin, as though she were wasting away.

“Step back, Much.” Tuck levelled his staff like a spear.

Much moved so that he was between Tuck and Angela. “Angela,” he said again, gently.

Angela hissed in savage fury. “Do you still care for me with this face?” she chuckled. “Will you give me your blood, Much? I am  _so_  hungry. The grace which has sustained me is all gone.”

“You don't want this,” Much told her. “I know how much you've done for this. I know what you wear on your feet. Don't give up so easily.”

“I have shed blood!” the vampire hissed.

“She is a demon, Much,” Tuck insisted. “A demon can not change.”

“Shut up, Tuck!” Much snapped. “She can still try. Pray, Angela. Finish your pilgrimage.”

“This is madness!”

“Shut up, Tuck!”

“I... can't,” Angela gasped. She held up her hand, which was now emaciated, almost skeletal. “He has turned from me.”

“Try,” Much begged. “Faith is only faith if it is tested.” He walked forward, right past the snarling beast, and knelt in front of the altar. “Won't you pray with me, Angela.”

Tuck held his staff at the ready as the vampire turned, but stayed his hand. Slowly, painfully, she knelt beside Much, stretched out prostrate on the floor and began to pray.

Tuck watched her, and prayed for a miracle.


	7. Burn

I don't burn like I used to.

Before I made the pilgrimage, the sun would have turned me to ash in a matter of seconds. I put my hand in the sun once; there was nothing but bones for a week.

Now my skin blisters after a matter of hours, but it doesn't burn. I look like that Irish nun I met in Santiago de Compostella, her pretty skin burned pink in the Spanish sun. I think I'm going to be staying in the dark for a while.

“You're not a vampire anymore,” Much points out.

“I'm not human either,” I reply. It's a sort of ritual we have. Looking like this, I feel more self-conscious than usual; the blisters are a sign that I'm not human, not that he seems to notice. 

“Angela,” he says. He looks at me as though I didn't resemble a very large lobster and I suddenly know that he's in love with me, which is ridiculous.

"Much,” I reply, and I can't seem to find much else to say tonight. I don't suppose it's so much more ridiculous than my being in love with him.


End file.
